


the wary traveller, braiding desires

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, House Stark, Season/Series 01, United North, bamf Sansa, nothing bad happens to the Starks cause I am biased af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-01 17:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13299294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: One: Tyrion Lannister heads North with a mission to fulfil, but his very nature ensures it will never come to fruition.Two: Tyrion breaks his fast with the Greyjoys and invites himself to the Dreadfort in doing so.Three: Tyrion strives to understand the Northmen better at the Dreadfort.





	1. Chapter 1

Tyrion didn’t know what to expect of the North, save for its harsh weather and equally unrefined people. He did not anticipate fine conversation or even finer wine, and brought plenty of his own books in an effort to stave off the inevitable boredom of the long journey. He knew not to anticipate much entertainment that he did not seek himself, in the less reputable and less clean establishments. Those, at least, are found everywhere a man has coin enough to pay.

Ned Stark’s reputation as a firm stick in mud has preceded him, but his many children have no legends of their own yet. Aside from the incomprehensible marriage of his daughter to a hostage, Tyrion knows almost nothing about them. Nor does he really care to. He certainly remembers there will be no one his age in the Castle, however. But children tend to be far less judgemental, as a general rule. Save for those that are naturally cruel. Somehow, he anticipated that the famously honourable Ned Stark would not suffer any of his children to be raised as brats, unlike Tyrion's own detestable nephew.

The first Stark he meets on his return from the Wall is not really a Stark at all, but now a Greyjoy, a tall girl with hair brighter than a flame. After stumbling in several hours after the main party has settled in, she hails him with a smile. Swiftly, she sweeps to perch on a low wall, so that she may sit closer to his eyeline. It is more respect than he has ever gained from anyone, save for Jaime. She does not gawp and stare at his deformity, nor titter and sneer. She simply asks after his journey, as though he were any other guest in her home.

“Long and arduous, I am sorry to say, Lady Stark,” he replies, not without a wry grin, “But I found little trifles to amuse myself.”

“Greyjoy,” She immediately corrects him, unashamed to do so. “I am Lady Greyjoy, my lord.”

“So you are,” He agrees, “And may I wish you felicitations on your recent matrimony, which I remember well. I wish you many happy years together.”

She smiles then, and it is the sun to a man battered by ceaseless storms, the moon breaking through clouds on a fearsome dark night. Her blazing blue eyes twinkle, dimples appearing in her cheeks. She is pretty enough now, but in a few years she will be a beauty worth talking about. A shame she will freeze up here in the ice, until her squidling husband drags her back to his desolate rock in the sea. Ned Stark truly is a stupid fuck, to waste such a girl’s life on a bleak, forgotten land of little worth. A girl like Sansa Greyjoy could have had the world.

She thanks him for his kind words, in a tone that seems stunningly genuine, and offers to escort him to the feast they are currently both missing.

“I get so hot all at once, for no reason other than the little one’s effect upon me,” She sighs, patting her rotund belly. She waddles under the weight of her pregnancy, her slow gait for once moving at an equal pace to his short legs. “Sometimes I need to escape the close air indoors, and breathe-in the fresh snow.”

Tyrion thinks it quite mad that anyone would ever wish to acquaint themselves with more snow than necessary, but then it rarely gets cold enough in the South to gain a fondness for such things. As they make their way inside, the smith polishing his work greets them. To Tyrion’s great surprise, Lady Sansa stops and calls him by name. The strapping young lad ducks his head respectfully as he comes to the open doorway, without even a hint of fearful grovelling. It is simply a case of bashfulness, at speaking with a pretty lady. Not fright at being addressed by one so far above his station, Tyrion notes with interest.

“Why ever are you working so late, Gendry?” She asks, resting her hands on the shelf of her stomach. “Don’t you know there is a feast commencing as we speak? With ale, and sweetmeats?”

“Aye, my lady,” replies the boy, in a King’s Landing accent if ever Tyrion heard one, “But there be dents in the Prince’s gauntlets he wants evened out ‘fore the sparring t'morrow.”

“Tosh!” cries Lady Sansa, tossing her hair attractively. “Let him whine about the marks of soldiering to my Father, whom I will be telling of this pointless waste of resources. Firewood, and your tools, are not infinite. And you need to be well-rested for your assigned work, on the morrow.”

Further shocking Tyrion, she reaches out to the boy, who immediately takes her hand as though he has done it many a time.

“You will join us, for a drink? Jon will be disappointed if you don’t,” she warns.

Stricken at the thought, the smith boy, Gendry, promises to be quick. He gives a shallow bow to them both, Tyrion first, and then as if remembering it is required, to Lady Sansa. She leads the way back into the loud, brimming hall, as though nothing unusual has taken place. She offers to accompany him to the head table, but having just found such a curious noblewoman, Tyrion is loathe to be separated from her strange ways so soon. Nothing but cold stares are waiting for him at the far end of the hall, the child he actually likes, Mrycella, probably long since a-bed.

So he refuses her offer, and finds a seat among unruly Northmen, quaffing large tankards of ale and mead. Watching as Sansa Greyjoy waddles as quickly as she can, to a table largely occupied by youths. A boy shoots up from his seat to meet her, settling his gentle hands on the sides of her belly. His kiss is tender, the nuzzling of her cheeks which follows, even more so.

Not such an arse after all, that Ned Stark, he thinks, watching the sentimental love between the two. The protective boy hovers over her, helping Lady Sansa lower herself into his previous spot on the bench. She seems grateful to be off her swollen feet, despite the short distance from the wall outside that was her previous seat. Besides the tall, willowy man that is her obviously doting husband, their table consists of several intriguing characters.

There is a curly, dark-haired youth whose long, poe-face has look of the Starks, from the small glimpse Tyrion gains of it from the side. Lady Sansa leans against him, without the Greyjoy boy bristling in jealousy. A brother then. One who wraps his arm about her and squeezes her shoulder, leaning close, likely to enquire after her health. Sweet and caring. His other arm is wrapped around a boy who should probably be a-bed, who shares Lady Greyjoy’s tumble of red curls; though his are darker, and unruly. This boy’s head is a constant twitch of movement. But he stays nestled into the safety of his brother’s arms, not allowing curiosity to best him.

A burly great hunk of a man sits on the far end of their bench, beside the Greyjoy heir, now squashed in next to his petite wife. None of them seem bothered by their close proximity, content to breathe in one another’s faces and laugh rowdily into each other’s ears. The warrior at the far end has the most elbow room, necessary since he is almost as wide as three normal sized soldiers. His face is misshapen with a deep scar around his mouth; even from a distance Tyrion can make out extensive damage. No one seems the least bit frightened or interested however, so the man is clearly no new addition to the fold.

The whole group seems tight-knit, chatting amiably to the others on the other side of their table, who’s backs are toward the wall. There is a dark-haired woman with the Mormont bear emblazoned on the leather bodice of her dress, seated beside a man with ratty features, his pointed nose only accentuated by the whiskers of his moustache. Beside him is another boy, wide-eyed and clutching his flagon of ale in tight fingers. He seems older than Lady Sansa’s young brother, but does not appear to be another one, since his hair is remorid straight and mousey brown. He is dressed in the plainest clothes of them all, not easily distinguishable from a servant, and certainly no warrior. The three men crammed in beside him could not be more different, clearly over just over the threshold of youth, but broad-shouldered with it, men already, with identical faces and bushy unkempt chin hair.

Tyrion has never actually met identical twins, the kind where the gods have supposedly split one soul across more than one body; because they have so many trials and tasks to endure, that one flesh would not be enough. His elder brother and sister are the only twins he knows. But there is no mistaking that the three faces bear the exact same features, in a way that even remarkably similar brothers do not. Triplets in the North. What great burdens and deeds have the gods stacked up for these poor fellows, that require not two but three bodies? He shudders to think.

He wishes his own brother were here now, to pick his thoughts on the matter. No doubt Jaime would have a crude comment to make of it. But Jaime was abandoned in King’s Landing. King Robert forbid his accompaniment, bellowing that the Kingsguard’s place was beside their King, and not wandering Princesses. Tyrion is allowed a brief glimpse of the top table when one brutish man carrying several tankards of ale breaks through the crowd to the roaring approval of the table he approaches. Apparently they were running dry.

To Tyrion’s surprise, Myrcella is still seated in her fine chair, though the hour draws late. In King’s Landing, Cersei was strict about bed times, not wanting her pretty daughter to have drooping dark eyes or premature wrinkles. She is charmed by conversation with Robb Stark, it seems, though his attention is mostly focused on her cousin. This is Tyrion’s ploy, of course. It is not that he distrusts the Starks; it is just that he distrusts everyone. No doubt the curly red-headed young lord is a decent sort of man, a bit simple. In the way most men who wield swords, and not pens, are. But Tyrion never saw the point of needless risk, and so had Rosamund Lannister join them, the two girls being close enough in age and looks as to be easily interchangeable.

Robb hasn’t seen Myrcella since she was a small girl, in Winterfell for the wedding of his sister, and Robert Baratheon’s mission to make Ned Stark his Hand. Robb Stark looks very lordly indeed, in his father’s seat, as acting Lord of Winerfell. He commands the room and his people well, seemingly at ease with his duties. Tyrion wonders if he would be so unflappable, if Father had hoisted him up onto his seat at Casterly Rock and bid him to take charge. Probably not at such a young age. Robb Stark seems unbothered, even when the aged, withered Maester appears from the recesses of the room; leaning down to whisper something in his ear, before melting back into the shadows.

Lord Robb absorbs the mysterious news with grace, quickly rejoining the chatter around him with a smile. His Aunt, the shrewish Lysa Arryn, sits on his other side and snaps waspishly at servants and table guests alike. Quentyn Martell looks positively alarmed to be in her presence, leaning back as she spits in rage. Tyrion is glad he forwent his seat beside her, to explore the lovely brothel in Winter Town that he enjoyed so much on his previous visit. Joffrey is still furious that he was sent North to attend his sister’s wedding, in lieu of their parents. He chews his food as though it were a dead pigeon ravaged by foxes, left on the Kingsroad, scooped up and presented to him, raw. Cersei only agreed to be parted with him, in her desperation to get him out of the Tyrell’s clutches. The Tyrell girl had him wrapped around her finger, and the whole court knew it.

Tyrion’s attention is drawn back to Lady Greyjoy’s table, when the young smith clatters inside, huffing from the cold and gratefully accepting a mug of ale. The dark-haired youth, that Tyrion now recognises as Jon Snow, the bastard Stark offshoot, has risen to his feet. He claps the boy Gendry heartily on the arm in greeting. Gendry returns his broad grin, rubbing a dribble of alcohol from his chin. What a strange collection of people, Tyrion muses. Lords and ladies, bastards and smiths, warriors and youths. What do these people find common ground on, he wonders? He doubts he will ever be privy to the details of their companionship, but it is interesting to muse on it. The little Stark is lifted effortlessly by the young smith, envious muscles bulging, as he takes the now vacant seat on the bench, placing the boy onto his thick shoulders. Bran Stark, unless it is Rickon (for at this distance Tyrion cannot tell) squeals in delight, clutching at Gendry’s hair for a handhold.

Tyrion sips on his own Summerwine, watching the furious card game that breaks out. The triplets all crow in victory whenever one of them wins. Robb Stark is thoroughly immersed in Rosamund now, Myrcella pouting a little at his disregard. It is for the best, Tyrion reasons with himself. Better to gauge Robb’s reaction to the timid, withdrawn Rosamund, before the sweeter, more active Myrcella can step into her rightful place. The deception need not go on forever. Only until the wedding. When they are sure that Cersei’s paranoia is only that, and her insistence that they are in danger from plots by perpetrators unknown does not come to pass.

When Myrcella is safely wed, the Lannisters will be secure. No matter that Stannis Baratheon seethes on Dragonstone, nursing his resentment, and the Tyrells scheme to get their girl on the throne. Dorne radiates hatred, refusing to send envoys to anything, even declining to send Princess Arianne as a potential match for Joffrey. Things feel more stable here in the North, among the savages. Iron Islanders, and Northmen from the entire region, are crammed into Winterfell. The rich Manderleys nestled beside masterly Tallharts, humble Hornwoods beside brusque Forresters. There are even members of the Night’s Watch here; stoic First Ranger Benjen Stark, seated next to his almost-goodsister, the ever charming Lady Arryn.

Tyrion spies an unfamiliar sigil that itches at the back of his mind so long that he simply must enquire about it. The Karstark beside him snorts, and names the men on a far table as Skaggs. Tyrion stares in awe at the reported cannibals, feasting merrily in the Lord of Winterfell’s hall. What a curious world it has become, he thinks, sipping from his wine. With the South growing ever more ominous, jealousy and disgust framing most interactions between Houses, here in the North, all are welcome to the seat of its power. Even the savage tribes from far flung islands, little better than the wildlings from beyond the Wall. He wonders if Myrcella will ever feel at home here, in this desolate place, where the people are as hard as the land that sustains them.

Their brutal ‘historic’ practices bared for all to see, from the flayed man on a Bolton soldier’s leathers, to the goblet that a bares horrific resemblance to a human skull, in the hands of what Tyrion now recognises as a member of House Stane. The bare driftwood on the Skaggs' rough-hewn jerkin resembles a dead, withered husk of a hand. Tyrion returns to his wine, queasy at the idea. Perhaps it is just as well they are honest about their history.

Here, they do not cloak the savagery behind false smiles and the thin veil of civility. Folk are more honest. They openly show their disregard, with no thought for politic behaviour. Tyrion only hopes his own deception will be forgiven, when all is revealed. So long as Robb Stark lives up to the honourable name of his ancestors, and does not blame Myrcella for his deeds, he supposes there shouldn’t be much of a problem. Tyrion is as blind as any puppet master to the whims of his creatures. He does not see the way that Robb’s eyes lighten in Rosamund's presence, nor the way he indulges her timidity with great warmth; and nor will he, until it is far too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's companions, in order, are: Theon Greyjoy, Jon Snow, Rickon Stark, Dagmer Cleftjaw, Lyra Mormont, Cley Cerwyn, Larence Snow, Greydon, Gormond and Gran Goodbrother.


	2. Chapter 2

On his previous trip to Winterfell, Tyrion spent a fair amount of time rooting around the library, which the Starks had been generous about giving him free access to. Despite his stellar memory, he can’t seem to find the bloody place again. After wasting the better part of an hour wandering aimlessly, poking his head into various storerooms, solars, bedchambers and servant’s quarters, he gives up. He should have simply asked in the first instance, but at this early hour, he hadn’t wanted to disturb the household. After the first of many incorrect turns, it became a point of pride. Dejected, he peers over a low wall into the courtyard below. Directly ahead, the distinctive gate to the godswood shimmers with morning dew. A few scant servants scurry about their assigned duties, but them aside, Winterfell is still sleeping.

A distant curiosity rises in him, something thought long forgotten. Tyrion had never actually been in a real godswood before. Not a real one with actual weirwood trees, where those who truly keep the old gods worship. His small feet steadily lead him down toward it, before he can question his motives. In the South, it was fashionable for wealthy great Houses to have a well-maintained godswood, with large, leafy trees. They were places to relax in the sun; the trees providing refreshing shelter in the heat of summer. Very little actual worship took place there. Apparently it would be useless to try, without a heart tree, if the Northmen were to be believed. The old gods could only hear through a weirwood. Which seems rather lacking in power, if you were to ask Tyrion. No one ever does.

When Tyrion was a boy, he had entertained the idea of becoming the High Septon. He can still recite whole chapters and passages from the Seven Pointed Star. Jaime becoming a member of the Kingsguard squashed that dream; his Father was loathe to lose both scions of his House to celibate duty. It seemed ridiculous, as he’d never arranged a marriage for Tyrion anyway. It was clear that Kevan’s line would be the one to inherit Casterly Rock, and so he had been deprived of his dream for nothing. He knew better than to ever mention such things, however. He would receive no pity, save for Jaime. And there were times when a man did not want his brother’s pity. Most days, in fact.

Because of this early devotion to the Seven, Tyrion had never given much thought to the savage gods of the First Men. The idea of praying outside in the dirt and expecting answers from trees seemed so primitive as to be barbaric. So he had never indulged his curiosity during their first trip North. His sister needed no more ammunition with which to disparage him as a filthy savage. But Cersei wasn’t here, and Joffrey had never been known as an early riser. With so few people about, there was little danger of his being discovered.

He waddles amongst the gnarled and twisted ancient trees, caught up entirely in his own thoughts. So much so that it takes him a fair while to spot the signature blood-red leaves on the bone-white weirwood, stretching spiney limbs above the trees ahead. He realises his mistake as soon as the thick branches and wide trunk with a huge hideous face, weeping red sap, comes into view. He is in the North now. And as he previously mused, they keep to old ways here. He finds the base of the weirwood rather crowded, and curses himself for interrupting. He is too close now to slink away unnoticed.

None of the silent worshipers look around or acknowledge him, however. The four are kneeling, heads bowed, in the grassy dirt. Lord Robb and his baseborn brother Jon, Lady Sansa, and the littlest Stark boy, whose name might be Bran or Rickon. Not a word of prayer can be heard, though Tyrion sees Robb’s lips move occasionally. He sees them in profile, though Lady Sansa’s face is obscured by her deep red hair, tumbling down loosely. The three boys can only be described as serene however; their faces terribly young, smooth and worry-free. He would suspect them to be sleeping, were it not for the awkward position. Tyrion has never seen anyone go into a trance, as they say the Red Priestesses of Essos do, but he imagines it must look something akin to this.

He does not know how long he remains watching the silent siblings, but he is broken from the enchantment when Lady Sansa dips her head even lower for a moment, before climbing to her feet. She rests her hand on Lord Robb’s shoulder, leaning heavily on him for support. Her swollen belly makes lurching up from such a low position difficult. The boy doesn’t even seem to notice.

She catches sight of Tyrion then, her pretty blue eyes widening in surprise. Like a rabbit ensnared, Tyrion does not move as she approaches him. Sansa says not a word until there is less than arm’s span between them.

“Did you come to pray, my lord?” She whispers, “My brothers will not mind if you join them. The godswood is for all to use.”

“Alas, my lady,” he replies, in an equally low tone, “I admit I came only to satisfy my curiosity.”

She arches an eyebrow at that, before turning to join a well-trodden path, clearly expecting him to follow. Tyrion obeys the silent command, again glad there is someone whose pace he can easily match. When they are far enough away from the heart tree to speak at a normal volume, Sansa enquires;

“Perhaps you will join me instead then, to break your fast?”

“An infinitely more agreeable prospect, my lady.” He accepts, as she leads him down an unfamiliar path, which takes them past the hot, deep pools of black water. Tyrion eyes them with some interest, understanding these are the hot springs that heat the castle walls so uniquely.

The gate they exit leads them across the first yard one enters when arriving at Winterfell. She does not lead him away toward the hall or kitchens, or even the family apartments. He assumed this was where Lady Sansa must break her fast daily with her lord husband, as she is never in attendance at the hall for morning meals. Tyrion himself enjoys to take his first meal of the day in his bedchambers, when circumstance will allow it. He has not been so uncouth to request such here.

Lady Sansa walks confidently past the central gate of Winterfell, to a thin tower, sharp and neat, with a heavy wooden door guarded by two slavering stone wolves. She unlatches the unlocked door, bidding Tyrion enter first. Curious, Tyrion hesitates only a moment before plunging into the dark recess of the unknown, finding himself in a small stone passage. There are two painted doors ahead of him, and a winding staircase to his right. He is startled to find himself looking at a Greyjoy banner, hanging boldly between the doors and the first stone steps.

“The right-side door,” Sansa trills, shutting the outside door behind her, closing out the cold.

Tyrion obediently opens the door in question, finding himself at the entrance to a small solar. It is fitted with chests, bookcases, two desks and a small table with room for four. Two of the chairs are already occupied. A roaring fireplace flickers merrily, providing heat and light, with a thick pile of fur lying directly in front. The attention of the two occupants snaps toward him. Lord Theon, whose eyes narrow in suspicion, and an older lady, pale with greying hair, whom Tyrion does not recognise at all.

He is forced to move into the room when Sansa advances behind him. She efficiently strips off her cloak to hang on a hook close to the fireplace. Then she holds out her hand to Tyrion, and it takes him a long moment to realise she expects him to hand her his own cloak, as though she were a servant. Quickly, in attempt to counteract the awkward atmosphere, he undoes the lion’s head clasp and lifts the heavy fur up to her.

Without any word of explanation, Lady Sansa advances on her lord husband, whose eyes soften as he takes in her rosy-cheeked face and bulging pregnant belly. She leans over him to kiss his lips, caressing down the soft waves of his hair. Lord Theon's hands smooth down the skirts around her belly. The mysterious lady munches on a chunk of bread, generously slavered with jam, utterly unconcerned. Tyrion attempts to be equally blasé about such public affection, the like of which he has never observed at court.

Pulling back from the kiss, Lady Sansa addresses Tyrion again, bidding him to take a seat. She rounds the table to greet the other lady, giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze. Then she moves away from them all and takes a poker from the rack beside the fire. Carefully skirting the pale grey furs, Sansa plunges it into the roaring depths of the flames. Tyrion stares as she simply steps back and leaves it there. He almost falls from his seat after barely scrambling onto it, when the furs move and reveal themselves to be a gigantic direwolf.

He has seen the famous Stark direwolves before, of course. This beast is not one of those. Perhaps five times the length of the younger wolves, the beast rears up and yawns, revealing rows of small white swords. It has a long, regal snout and disarming, golden eyes which seem to glow brighter than the flames dancing behind its head.

“Storm,” tuts Lady Sansa, patting the beast’s shaggy head, “You are frightening our guest.”

The wolf lets out a huff, before laying back down, eyes still trained on Tyrion.

“My husband’s wolf,” Sansa reveals, finally taking her seat. “We thought it best she didn’t roam freely yet, for the Princess’ sake.”

Rosamund is growing accustomed to Lord Robb’s wolf, it must be said. Grey Wind is exceptionally well behaved around her, often sitting at his master’s feet during court. The real Mrycella is still rather leery of the powerful creatures; quite sensibly, Tyrion believes. He reaches for a plate and a peach, his gaze remaining locked on the giant predator.

Theon has already prepared a plate for Sansa. He has piled up bread, salted ham, grapes and cheese, as well as an iced lemoncake. This is the first item Sansa demolishes. The appetites of pregnant women are well known across the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion remembers his own sister similarly preoccupied by food during her three pregnancies, and is not surprised by the rapid manner with which Sansa’s meal begins disappearing.

“I do not believe we have met, my lady?” Tyrion asks of the older woman, who fixes him with a vacant stare. Her eyes are cold like a dead fish, and he suppresses a shiver. He is suddenly glad their paths have not crossed until now.

“Mother, this is Tyrion of House Lannister,” Lord Theon intervenes with a glare, daring him to question the woman’s odd manner, “Lord Tyrion; my lady mother, Alannys Greyjoy.”

“Indeed?” Tyrion smiles kindly, “A delight to make your acquaintance.”

“Where’s Gwyn?” Sansa asks her husband, while tucking into a slice of bread dipped in honey.

“Dreadfort,” Theon replies shortly, tearing off a piece of ham and throwing it over his shoulder; the wolf catches it effortlessly, licking its chops with a huge pink tongue. “Probably halfway there by now. She set off when it was still dark.”

A look passes between man and wife then, something significant. Tyrion would not hazard to guess its meaning. It is becoming evident that Winterfell holds more secrets than anticipated, several in this tower alone. He resolves to discreetly look into why Lady Gwynesse Harlaw's presence at the Dreadfort may be important.

“I have never visited the Dreadfort.” Tyrion interjects smoothly, “Tell me, does it deserve its fearsome reputation?”

“Mayhaps we should all go,” Sansa suggests, “And then you could judge for yourself.”

“Lady Wylla would be thrilled to meet Princess Mrycella.” Theon adds.

Tyrion promises to consider the suggestion, though it does seem like a good one. He would sooner travel about the realm than remain at the rather uneventful Winterfell. He will freely own that the terrifying tales of the Dreadfort arouse a certain macabre interest.

“Would you care for some spicewine, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa offers, interrupting his musings. “I find it works wonders to shake off the chill.”

“Certainly, if you recommend it. I have no doubt I shall enjoy this Northern delicacy.” Tyrion readily agrees, having made it a habit to never turn down wine.

“You don’t have spicewine in the South?” Theon asks, rising out of his seat to pour a decanter of wine into a large silver bowl. Tyrion watches with raised eyebrows, having incorrectly assumed the silver bowl was a serving dish, emptied of its wares.

“Not that I know of,” Tyrion answers, “And I do know rather a lot about wine, it must be said.”

“You are in for a treat, my lord. It is a combination of a dark red, ginger and spices. It must always be drunk hot,” Sansa explains, which has Tyrion sitting up in anticipation of something truly new.

“Hot?” he repeats, “I have heard of hot cider, but hot wine…?”

“Reserve your judgement til afterward,” Theon suggests, having gathered the now red hot poker from the fire, he plunges it into the bowl of wine, which immediately begins to froth and bubble. Sansa claps in delight, for once acting her young age.

After allowing a moment for cooling, man and wife serve their guests. Theon carefully ladles the hot wine into wooden goblets, which Sansa passes out. The scent of the drink is rich and seductive, ginger and cinnamon strong and enticing. After swirling it a little and blowing vigorously, Tyrion bravely takes a sip.

“Gods be good,” he whispers, in awe. Such excellence being kept hidden from him for so many years, can only be blamed the Southron habit of dismissing Northern customs.

“Is it to your liking, my lord?” Sansa’s eyes twinkle knowingly at him from across the tabletop.

“Lady Sansa, it is divine.” Tyrion praises.

Silently, he wonders what other delights are just waiting to be discovered, secreted away in the enigmatic North.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The Dreadfort emerges over the hill like a forked spear of glittering black rock, made glossy by the slick of rain. Its stones are smaller and darker than the large slabs that Winterfell is composed of. Tyrion allows the dark, menacing structure to still his breath for a moment, having never seen its like in all his travels. It is every bit as dreadful as the name would suggest.

The Boltons are a small formation waiting in the cold, muddy courtyard, stoic and grim in the manner of most Northmen. Tyrion recognises only the woman beside Lord Bolton, in the place usually reserved for the Lady of the keep. Lady Gwynesse Harlaw stands rigid, her face severe as a thundercloud; utterly aligned with the rest of the household. Lord Bolton's arm is settled about her back, holding her comfortably close, and she does not seem ill at ease with the casual touch. Indeed, she seems so suited to her place that it takes Tyrion a moment to realise what is wrong with the picture the household forms. Though a guest, Lady Gwynesse should not stand in such a place of pride among the family. It is clear then, what exactly Lord and Lady Greyjoy found so significant in her presence here. Apparently, it will not be long before another wedding takes place in this bleak castle.

Lord Bolton and Lady Gwyn, as she is known by all in Winterfell, are accompanied by two young men. Obviously the Lord’s sons, sharing his stature and similar looks. The elder is joined by his lady wife, the blonde woman that was lately a Manderly, if Tyrion remembers correctly. Sleeping in her arms is a baby girl child. Standing slightly separate is the missing Stark, the reason why only one small boy is in attendance at Winterfell.

After pleasantries are exchanged, and the Baratheon-Lannister contingent is offered bread and salt, the procession troops inside. The Starks have been afforded their “usual rooms”, which they immediately head toward. No doubt to wash off the stink and dust of travel. Tyrion follows his assigned guide, with Myrcella and Rosamund hot on his heels, clutching one another for courage. Tyrion cannot fault them for it; the castle seems even colder inside, unwelcoming and dark, with only every second sconce lit.

The hideously ugly sigil of the Flayed Man hangs intermittently, or else is carved into the very stone. The anguished faces of the men is rendered in exquisite, agonising detail, their phantom screams ringing silently down every passageway. Tyrion feels himself begin to shiver, and knows it is not only due to the chill. What a horrid place. He regrets asking after it now; would that he could keep his curious tongue behind his teeth. They could be enjoying a nice meal in Winterfell’s warm, if basic, hall. Instead, he is shown to an ugly bedchamber with small windows, heavy blue and purple decoration sapping even more of the scant light. At least the fireplace is gigantic.

He elects to spend as little time alone in this fortress, as possible. Beginning immediately; he leaves Lannister servants to unpack his small travel bag, and goes to seek out Myrcella. Rosamund is also in her room, having been given the nicest chambers due to the assumption of who she is. The girls will swap without anyone taking notice; the guards at their doors being Baratheon men, naturally. They will expect Mrycella to arrive here after feasting to sleep. It is a large chamber with a four-poster bed, draped entirely in dark pink coverings. The room smells strongly of dried flowers, though live ones have been placed about the room also. At least it is more cheerful than Tyrion’s rooms.

She and Rosamund are comparing dresses, trying to decide what to wear for their first evening in the different castle.

“The Bolton sigil is pink, though I have seen a lot of blue also.” Myrcella says, brandishing a deep indigo dress covered in tiny beads.

“You would look very fetching in the pink, though. This golden yellow sash would be very smart with it.” Rosamund counters, laying the item in question over a frilly pink mountain of material, that might be a dress or a dawn cloud.

“I must agree, my dear,” Tyrion says, “Pink brings out the loveliest blush to your cheek.”

As if to prove it, Myrcella flushes and smiles winsomely. Robb Stark will be the worst kind of fool if he does not cherish her, Tyrion thinks.

“Thank you Uncle,” she whispers, always shy when complimented.

Tyrion is terribly glad that Joffrey whined his way out of attending this extra excursion. His meek sister will have a much nicer time without the horrid brat. Myrcella is like a blooming flower whenever out of the overshadowing presence of her mother and brother, weeds that usually catch all the sun.

Also missing from the group is Arya Stark. Tyrion was terribly confused when the topic of discussion the night before was which Stark would remain behind. Jon had offered to do so, but Sansa had insisted he come. According to her, Bran would be terribly disappointed otherwise. Finally, Tyrion learnt that the other small Stark was currently a page for Ser Domeric, Lord Bolton’s heir. Robb was reluctant for any of them to leave, but was overwhelmed by the majority who wished to visit the castle. Rosamund swayed him with her gentle admission that she too would like to see more of the North. This pleased the young lord, who of course was obliged to accompany her.

Truthfully, Tyrion had been completely confused as to why anyone must remain behind. “Is there none you trust more than a child, to act as castellan?” He had asked.

An entire table of confused faces had turned to him at once.

“You mistake me, my lord.” Robb Stark had finally answered. “It is not a case of trustworthy castellans. Maester Luwin will take good care of the daily run of Winterfell, in my stead.”

“Then why-” Tyrion didn’t manage to complete his question, as several voices said in unison;

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Lady Sansa said it in a particularly grim fashion, whilst the small children in that unique tone of response when adults are being especially dumb.

No further elaboration was given; Arya Stark volunteered and was accepted as the person for this role.

“You only need to hold session once to listen to grievances, while I am gone.” Robb said firmly, “But you must attend it in its entirety, and dress appropriately. Luwin will tell me if you don’t.”

She had rolled her eyes, but promised to comply with his wishes. 

Tyrion still cannot believe that such a young girl was given charge of a keep, even if only for just over a sennight. Such a thing would never happen in the South. But he can see the merit of ensuring a member of the family is always present at the castle. How Arya is faring with Joffrey and her sour Aunt Lysa for company, Tyrion would not hazard to guess. He heard her loudly checking that Gendry would be remaining in the smithy before they left, so perhaps she has an unorthodox friend in place.

Though they have temporarily lost the company of one Stark, they have gained another in little Bran. The boy is proud and eager to show off his page boy uniform to Jon, whom he has evidently not seen in some time. That first feast the boy speaks enthusiastically the entire time, his head bobbing in rhythm, whilst shovelling potatoes into his mouth. Lady Sansa fusses over him, claiming to have missed him very much. Rickon Stark clearly feels the same way, as he spends the entire meal in his brother’s lap.

There is no dancing that night in the Dreadfort, but Ser Domeric Bolton plays the harp, while Lady Wylla sings a sweet accompanyment. Rosamund and Myrcella seem particularly moved, misty eyes moist when they applaud. Myrcella looks splendidly sweet in her pink ruffles, but Robb Stark seems more enamoured with Rosamund in her svelte Lannister-red wrap dress. Tyrion hides his frown behind his drink. Perhaps the time to reveal the ruse is almost upon them, though the wedding is still almost half a year hence. He had hoped to stretch the deception to its limit.

After the singing, Lady Wylla recites a poem regarding garden bees, her baby daughter joining in at set intervals with a clap of her pudgy hands. She charmingly babbled over the words, and tucked her face close to her mother's bosom when she was praised.

The Northmen do not seem bothered by the grim castle. They talk animatedly among themselves, catching up on news. The keep might be draughty, the decor heavy and gruesome, but the spicewine flows generously, and the honey roast pork was delicious. Lady Gwyn admonishes Theon for bringing her sister along. But is quickly calmed by his assertion that trying to leave her behind would have been a disaster. The boy’s gigantic wolf curls up with its pups, the Stark direwolves in one large fluffy pile beside the hall’s sooty fireplace. Bran Stark spills gravy across the table in his eagerness to showcase his swordplay manoevers. He is scolded at first by Lady Wylla, before she dissolves into laughter. Even here, Tyrion muses, some semblance of warmth can be found. What an odd place the North is shaping up to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this spoils some of my plots for TLT series, but I just had the urge to write it. I was really torn with suitable girls for Robb. I had some many ideas bouncing around in my head, but in the end it was Robert Baratheon's obsession with joining his House to House Stark that tipped my hand. He directed my fingers, but just like in canon, he'll never get his wish. Rosamund is the perfect choice for Robb in this scenario, I think. Sansa knows that Cersei will rain hellfire to get her children back, so she'd never allow him to actually marry Mrycella. Tyrion bringing Rosamund along for the ride was him unknowingly dropping the ideal scenario into her lap. Now the Starks can't be blamed for breaking a betrothal and pissing on Robert's wishes.


End file.
